Shooting Butterflies
by Q u e e n V a m p
Summary: slight-AU. He contemplates telling the truth but figures he couldn't risk being separated from Clary and spins a tale on his tongue of wanting to take 'big boy' medicine and that he's sorry and he hugs Jocelyn close and inhales her fear and the scent of Lucian and it's all for Clarissa—always for her. clary/jonathan
1. a boy named Jonathan Christopher

**Title | **Shooting Butterflies  
**Genre| **romance/horror  
**Rating| **T for blood and death  
**Fandom| **TMI  
**Timeline| **Pre-CoB  
**Couple| **jonathan/clary

**Warning| **Jonathan, child!Jonathan, baby!Clary, child abuse, inside jokes, brotherly/sisterly love, torture, knives

* * *

**Chapter One: **_a boy named Jonathan Christopher_

* * *

_"I hardly know you; I think I can tell,_

_These are the reasons I think that we're ill."_

—"My Manic and I" by Laura Marling

* * *

Moonlight was silver like old scars, shining bright as the sun through the curtains. "Jonathan," a woman's voice, his mother's voice, calls to him from the shadows and she strides across his bedroom and yanks the curtains shut. Her hair is long and red, curling into ringlets tumble down her leather covered shoulders and back. Her face is pale and sickly in the dark. "Come here."

Throwing back his sheets Jonathan stands in his pajamas for a few moments as his mother runs around his room, grabbing clothes, books and a few half-broken toys into a bag laid out on his bed.

"Mama?" he whispers but Mama won't look at him. She muttering to herself, a strange progressive mantra he can't begin to understand and he's suddenly reminded of his father, warning him of his mother's depressive mood swings. "Mama—?" He reaches out to touch her and she flinches away eyes wide like she's seeing something she shouldn't.

"Jocelyn!" a male voice bellows and Lucian—the werewolf man—runs into his room, hair askew and clothes rumbled and dirty. Jonathan's eyes widen. Wasn't he supposed to be dead? "Hurry up, we have to go now!"

Mama's eyes are wide and she nods, wordlessly slings the backpack onto her arm and looks to Jonathan. "Sweetheart, we're going to go on a little trip," she says sweetly as she can, but keeps her distance, as always, she never touches him unless it's necessary.

Sensing her hesitation, Lucian grabs him, jostling him upwards—Jonathan shrieks. "Unhand me, mutt!" He swings his hands back and lands a few blows to the not-dead wolfman's ears. He howls in pain.

"Luke!" His mother grabs Jonathan and he burrows into her warmth and smell, taking comfort in her presences. Mama shivers against him.

Her skin is damp with sweat and . . . blood.

Suddenly they're in motion, running through the corridors of the Fairchild estate and down the spiraling staircase in a clutter of motion, shouting and weapons.

His grandparents are waiting at the bottom of the staircase in their nightclothes, their hair is the same fiery red as his mother's, but silver just as their skin was leathery and wrinkled, it was scarred silvery like the moonlight—like his father's and his mother's and everyone else's.

Silver moonlight dominates everything in the dark and chases away the monsters.

"Jocelyn!" they cry and Jonathan glares at them for good measure. "Where are you going?"

She says nothing to them and runs out the door, escaping into the night.

* * *

This new world is odd and funny smelling. There are odd glowing devices, metal carriages that run without horses and so much _noise_. He doesn't like it and he wants to go home. He longs for grass and trees and horses and his father's smooth, benevolent voice. Mama just smiles at him and asks, "Why?" and says they've always lived here.

It's him and her and Lucian living in a small cramped room, much less extravagant than the rooms of the Fairchild or Morgenstern mansion.

The people on the streets are odd as well—out of the corner of his eye, sometimes, he'll see them for what they truly are, then indirectly he'll see them as they aren't. Unnatural colors are dulled and claws are filed into nails. He'll later remember that these people are covered by what's called 'glamor'.

Things get stranger and stranger when he's taken to a man with upturned eyes and glittery make-up and lavish yet outrageous clothes. He summons sparkling blue fire in his palms and fingertips and touches the sides of Jonathan's face—the fire doesn't sear him, or burn, it's cool as water.

When he withdraws his hands, his expression is grim and Jonathan is smiling because _yes _this land is magical too.

* * *

Mama is in a state of stress for the next few days, vomiting into toilets and running her fingers through her knotted hair and crying _no no no _because what's happening can't be happening. Lucian is distraught as well, but Jonathan doesn't really care for the fleabag and refuses to act otherwise.

Jonathan doesn't care for Mama's mood swings either, or the fact that she has taken to calling him Sebastian. It happened suddenly one day, he woke up and she and Lucian started calling him _Sebastian_. He also has to take a new medicine, a small handful of white pills that Mama swears are good for him and Lucian frowns grimly, but nods all the same.

They give him headaches, dilute his mind, and make it harder for him to think. Until it's harder and harder for him to remember his father's face and the great halls and home in which he once lived and the horses he rode and the toys he left behind.

He has a sense—he knows his mother is tricking him. He doesn't know or for what purpose, but Mama was trying to hurt him somehow.

So when she comes to him the next morning with his usual breakfast and pills and orders him to take them first—more than the usual amount—and he screams, cries, bites to get away.

Mama makes a point thereafter to sneak the medicine into his food.

* * *

There's a thing growing in Mama's belly.

A big thing.

A _loved _thing.

It's called a baby.

And Mama loves it more than him—which is unfortunate but not unlikely. He often finds himself staring at the swell that grew under her once form fitting tee shirts and longs to touch it, and his mother let him, reluctantly.

The skin was warm there, pink and silvery with old scars that shine under his pale hands. Her belly was round like a growth, sphering outward from under her breasts to the waistband of her jeans similar to a half-globe. He wonders that whatever was inside would be circular, and how would it come out.

He voices his thoughts on the subject when something brushes past his fingers and under the hard, silvery skin.

His eyes go uncharacteristically wide and Jocelyn smiles a little. "I think she likes you, Sebastian."

His mouth twists.

Baby's love everything, right? They love without thought or care and however they are raised they grow to indifferently love the person who gave them care and raises them up—like he with his mother and father. Since he is alone in the world, he's learnt to value the prospect of alliance in something that could be so easily corrupted by default. _Yes, _Sebastian thinks, staring into the opaque bluish green eyes of his new baby sister. _I will love you and care for you and you'll love me in return._

"What did you name her?" asks Lucian and Jocelyn smiles up at him, weary and blurry eyed as she smiles down at the peach skinned baby and let the little girl fist her finger—no more than two hours old and Mama already loved her more—and coos to her.

"Clarissa. Clarissa Fray."

* * *

By the time she's two Clarissa is a thinker, he can tell and he can already imagine all the great conversations and pranks they will play once her vocabulary expands upon that of "Mommy, Unkie and Bassie."

Of course, she can't say his full name, yet, but he coaches her for long hours out of the day and taught her the break down and how to put it together, but the hapless two-year-old will only giggle and place her pudgy hands on his face and lightly slap him, crying, "Bassie! Bassie!" between shrilly giggles and he'll sigh heavily, but smile too.

"No, Clarissa, Seb-_bas_-tian,"

The name had always felt wrong and he can't exactly remember why, but _Sebastian _doesn't seem to fit him as well as any other name. Perhaps he could rename himself one day.

"Bassie . . . pwetty!" She yanks fistfuls of his white-blonde hair and he retrains his primitive urge to yell in retaliation.

* * *

It happens one day at the park when Sebastian realizes Clarissa was staring at a patch of flowers, and beyond to the things floating between the blooms with papery butterfly wings and chirping voices. "Do you see them too, Clarissa?" he asks, almost shocked when his sister shrieks loudly as they flew closer.

His sister could see Them too. The faeries! This was the best day ever!

"Hey, Clarissa do you want to see a cool trick?" Clarissa brays excitedly and Sebastian nods. "Okay, wait here."

He crawls forward a few steps on his hands and a knee, keeping his eye trained on a tiny winged creature and slowly slides his arms through the cool grass towards it until his hands created two half spheres and quickly brings them around the faerie and brought it close. The thing cries and kicks and bites, but Sebastian was immune having done this before. His fingers are marred with tiny, upper jaw bites that remind him that the fey are real.

He shuffles back to Clarissa, opening his hand a little and catching the creature's lower half in his fist and held it up for Clarissa to see. "Pretty, huh?"

The papery wings outstretch and extend like pressed thin gossamer, so translucent and pretty and breakable it seemed to be sinful to make something so fragile.

Clarissa's eyes are bright with wonder and she coos and waves her pinky towards the hysterical faerie.

"Watch this," Sebastian takes his thumb and forefinger and places it on the faerie's paper-thin wing and pinches, tremors ran through its tiny body and it yips. Sebastian pinches the wing hardens and yanks back, ripping the wing clean off.

The faerie screams as sharply as a baby rabbit would, and clear liquid ran out of its body and down between Sebastian's fingers and dripping of its dismembered wing as he smiles.

The faerie's screams mix with other cries too. Cries he doesn't like.

He takes one look into his baby sister's face and felt his stomach beginning to tie in to knots.

Clarissa is crying—sobbing—and it's all his fault.

Jocelyn is sure to enforce that thought when she came running over seconds later to find the dead faerie in his hands and Clarissa's cherry red face.

* * *

It's dark in the house, quiet, too quiet.

Sebastian slowly slips across the hall into his sister's nursery without waking Jocelyn—who'd fallen asleep on the couch with 'Uncle Luke' and a bottle of something heavy and smelly.

Clarissa's nursery was paints a pale rosy pink with designs of flowers and angels and stuffed animals and toys he never had time to count. So much work had gone into it though. Lucian and Mama had worked really, really hard to make Clarissa's room so perfect, they'd forgotten completely about him—which was fine because he liked his grey walls better anyway.

Clarissa was lying in her crib, motionless and clutching a pink blanket to her chest. "Clarissa?" he calls softly and he watches his sister pull the covers over her curly redhead. "Clarissa . . ." He shuffles across the floor towards the crib and rests his hands on the bars, pressing his nose and one eye between them to watch his little sister as she holds her breath and pretends to be sleeping. "Clarissa, I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to hurt it; I was trying to pet it. Please, look at me."

_Look at me. Look at me! Don't you forget me too! _He wants to reach out and grab her and make her look at him, but his rage quells when the blanket lowers slowly and two red tinted green eyes stare up at him, sniffling. "Bassie . . . sworry?" she whimpers and Sebastian smiles as tenderly as he'd allow; eager to fool his sister back into his arms.

"Yes, Bassie's sorry."

He crawls up the bars and into the crib, pulling Clarissa into him, he plays with the spiraling curls that adore her head and whispers into her hair how sorry he was and that he'd never do it again.

While she's watching, at least.

* * *

When he woke the next morning, the sheets in the bed are cool and Clarissa is gone.

And so was her sight.

"You broke her!" Sebastian shrieks loudly at his mother. They're back at the park again today, Clarissa playing in the sandbox with Lucas, not even sparing a glance towards the willowy tree woman eyeing her curiously. Jocelyn was livid and says nothing, but tries to calm her raving son.

"Sebastian, calm down. I didn't do anything to Clary."

"Bullshit!" He yells a word adult's said when they were angry, and several old ladies turn to look back at Jocelyn with disapproving looks. It made him feel a little better—seeing that look on her face. "Yesterday, Clarissa saw those things with wings and now she can't! _You did something to her_!"

"Sebastian, stop this. I didn't do anything to Clary. There are _no_ things with wings." Her voice is utterly calm, taunt like a bow string and stern. "Don't ever speak about this again." Sebastian's eyes widen in marvel at his mother's mirth and then his expression twists, like his anger, like the screws in his head, they turn like switches in his mind.

"Fine," he spits and stomps away, past Clarissa and Lucian in the sandbox, past the tree woman, past the old ladies, past the seething faeries in the flowers and up into the jungle gym—swinging himself up onto the bars and sat there until Lucian has to come up and get him. Not without a few scratches and kicks he might add.

* * *

"Clary, Clary, see the faerie." He raises his jarred specimen for three-year-old Clarissa to see and she's staring into the foggy glass and seeing nothing.

He leaves the little faerie corpse on Jocelyn's pillow and the wings in Luke's cereal.

* * *

He's alone in his world again. Able to see things no one else can.

He catches Jocelyn's long stares at certain people sometimes—he sees their fangs and tusks and purple skin and decaying flesh while the rest of the world sees the pretty glamor around them. Jocelyn's long since perfected pretending not to see, Lucian too.

But Clary's sight never comes back and it angers him that Jocelyn would ever alter something so brilliant and beautiful in her own perfect creation—the only one Sebastian liked.

They move around a bit more, finally settling in a part of the city Jocelyn likes and she becomes a painter—gone is the elegant woman with shining copper hair and exquisite taste, and born from her ashes is a tacky, paint-covered woman with too much opinion for someone of her lowered stature. Lucian too becomes someone else—beast on four paws and garnished teeth tamed into clothes and becoming a book merchant by trade.

The sight disgusts him and he keeps Clarissa close and whispers to her of his hate because she is the only one on his kin left with any sense at all.

And Clarissa tusks with him and smiles.

* * *

His mind is empty like an egg, cracked so only the yoke spills out. Jocelyn bandages him up and sends him to school—an arranged eight hour day of lessons that underline the basic parts of his mind, while what remains of him strives for what he has forgotten. He can't find it. Anywhere.

Jocelyn's pills had finally done their magic.

And when he falls to the floor of his first grade class room, foaming from the mouth and heart lurching in his chest the human doctors and teachers know it too.

She'll tell him he got into the bottle and cry when child services threaten to take away him and Clarissa.

He contemplates telling the truth but figures he couldn't risk the chance of being separated from his beloved sister and spins a tale on his tongue of wanting to take 'big boy' medicine and that he's sorry and he hugs Jocelyn close in front of his teachers; inhales her fear and the scent of Lucian and it's all for Clarissa—always for her.

Counting his triumphs still, months later in the kitchen while Jocelyn and Lucian are preparing dinner he stands in the archway of the kitchen twirling a steak knife in his fingers. He smiles when they notice him and he gives his carefully thought speech ending with: "and no more pills," and tosses the knife back onto the counter.

It's that moment, Clarissa runs into the room—four years old and talkative as ever—hoisting a book over her head and demanding to be read to. Sebastian nods to her, smiling gently and letting her lead him into the living room.

He catches one final glimpse of Jocelyn and Lucian as he rounds the corner—eyes wide in fear and trembling as if visibly shaken.

He treasures that second of all.

* * *

**So Jocelyn takes Jonathan with her to the mundane world and he hates it. Luckily he has Clary with him to keep him sane. Yes, I know it took more than one trip to Magnus's house to get rid of Clary's sight, but let's pretend it happened all at once. And Jonathan's too demonic to not see his own kind. Yeah, whatever it worked in my head. I can't waiting to finish this! So many ideas!**

**~QueenVamp**


	2. prince with a scarlet crown

**Title | **Shooting Butterflies  
**Genre| **romance/horror  
**Rating| **T for blood and death  
**Fandom| **TMI  
**Timeline| **Pre-CoB  
**Couple| **jonathan/clary

**Warning| **Jonathan, child!Jonathan, slight!animal abuse, some gore, some bullying, some Simon, some demons, some death

* * *

**Chapter Two: **_prince with a scarlet crown_

* * *

_"'Cause we all know what goes around, comes around,  
Should have known what I was all about  
Do not test me—'cause I'm the fucking king of the world, get on your knees."_

—"King of the World" by Porcelain and the Tramps

* * *

Seasons pass and years go by and little by little, Sebastian watches the world through his pit less black eyes and wonders _why do I see what I see_? He can never ask Jocelyn or Luke these questions; he would be scolded and sent to his room for hours afterward if that were to happen.

No, what he sees and what no one else can is the unspoken forbidden subject in their household.

He can't ask, he can't research, so he learns.

The things with the fangs and glowing eyes are vampires. The beautiful things with illuminated faces are the fey. The misshapen monsters are demons. And the fury things are shape shifters.

Or werewolves.

He's always running into werewolves.

Their claws and eyes and animal-like nature shine through their human skins.

Luke's the one he watches the closest.

He's not scared and he never has been scared of any of them. Luke made a perfect guard dog and kept Clary, and sometimes him, safe from the bigger and badder of the hidden world he's hardly breeched the borders of.

:-:

There are other things too, people with glowing eyes and indefinite shapes. They are powerful—and their abilities vary greatly—they are strong and steely and beautiful. They are charming types of beauty, the kinds that draws in the weaker minded so that they could be pulled into darker waters and drown for their crimes.

They watch him as he watches them with furious envy.

He feels like them. He feels as though he could understand them.

It's the demons, the things with the shining eyes and wicked mouths that he feels the closets to.

:-:

There's one demon that ventures to talk to him, a child from his class: a girl with long black, knotted hair and paper pale skin. Her lips are shiny and pink as old scars and her eyes are freakishly wide and black.

She gives him fey food and he gives it to their overweight principal.

They share a laugh and some secrets.

"You're a monster like me," she whispers so softly it could have been the wind, and she smiles with gapping margins between her boxy milk teeth. "We will be great friends indeed."

:-:

Up until now, Sebastian had led a quiet existence in his large class, but then the day happened when Clarissa came to his fourth grade classroom crying. Then his rule had begun.

It started with the day Clarissa first entered the school, by the end of the day she had been: pushed, bullied, and had her lunchbox stolen. And Sebastian was _beyond _angry at the thought of someone picking on his adorable baby sister. Comforting was on the top of his list, patting her shoulders and wiping away her tears; they sat on the couch in the living room watching TV and falling asleep.

Sebastian is wide awake, mind alert and glaring at the television, but not seeing, until something of interest catches his ear.

_"By showing his teeth, the alpha proclaims this act of dominance towards his Beta—keeping him in line." _The announcer-man, Morgan Somethingorwhatever, says and Sebastian gets an idea. A very thoughtful, ingenious, and possibly bloody idea.

:-:

He gives Clary her chance, and he's puffed and proud when she marches over to the other side of the playground—Sebastian and the pale, four-eyes flanking her—and asks, demands, but never pleads to have her lunchbox back. He says no and Clary launches into high hell. Yelling, screaming, and threatening.

"—tellin' your mom!" Slips past her lips and Sebastian watches his little sister go down flat with a single push. Being so delicate and waiflike isn't any sort of defense, but they always have people—stronger and tainted—to protect them.

Before Clarissa could make a sound, he tackles the boy to the ground, clawing at his face, going for the throat and roaring.

Finally, he has the boy pinned—hands under his knees, shoulders with one hand and head in the other—and forces the boy to look him in the eye. The boy, by now, is sputtering and wide-eyed, since he's more than half Sebastian's size and weighs a bit on the hefty side—Sebastian had knocked him back no problem.

"This is how it's going to be," he says slowly so that his slug brain will understand. "My little sister wants her lunchbox back, and you're going to give it back to her—alright? And I will not hear," His grip tightens in the boy's hair. "One word otherwise." His grip tightens further and the boy is yelping and crying and nodding and when Sebastian lets him up, he scrambles for the lockers and retrieves Clarissa's unicorn lunchbox.

Sebastian snatches it from him—not thinking much to the design—and gives him a low warning against touching his sister or even looking at her.

From that day forward, people just seemed to do whatever Sebastian said.

"He's a natural born leader." His teacher chirps during the parent-teacher conference and Jocelyn's eyes are round and wary as Sebastian is attended to by several other fourth-graders asking him how he is and complementing on his grades and how pretty his little sister is.

:-:

The overweight principal is now thin and tired looking, always hungry with a dry cotton-mouth and has been sent to a hospital in some foreign country to be studied.

Sebastian and his demon laugh for the day and look for other mischief to cause.

"I'm bored," she says and he nods in agreement.

They leave a bird pined like a butterfly on the Science teacher's desk and watch the horror roll across their faces. Clarissa—luckily—misses the incident due to the fact that she was in art class.

:-:

He's sure now that Clarissa, and her plus one, are safe in their second-grade classroom and has appointed the hall monitor to take special care of her and confided in her teachers that he's 'worried' about her being bullied and pays three second-graders a cookie-a-day to keep a close eye on her.

In addition, there are always boys who want to fight him for top spot and catty little girls who want to kiss him under the slide.

Being king is hard work, but he glides through it effortlessly and calls the shots without too much bloodshed. Not that his demon friend minds the cleanup.

:-:

"I propose a game," the demon says one night when he snuck out of the apartment to swing on the swings with her.

"What sort of game?"

"A _fun _one." She snickers, all teeth and black eyes.

He now knows why all the girls in class whisper about her behind her back. She's hideous. There's no alternative beauty that befits her vulgar form and she knows it.

"If you can steal the heart from a dead human, I'll tell you everything I've gathered on your true parentage." Sebastian's eyes shine. "However," she adds coyly. "If you don't," Her cold, dead hand presses to the side of his face and a furious burning sensation creeps along his jawline with the trail of her fingers. "You must give me your beauty. Deal?"

The new information intrigues him and he shrugs. "Deal."

:-:

It's cold and the snow crunches under their boots in February, Clarissa's fiery hair is curled into ribbons and she's wearing a soft red tee shirt and black jeans. The rest of the school is in a symbolic shade of red, white, and pink—all doted in hearts and colorful streamers and the like.

Sebastian feels the bile rising to the back of his throat.

_"It's Valentine's Day_!" Clarissa brays excitedly and shows him—for the fifth time—the cardboard Valentine's Day box she decorated with pink colored paper and hearts. He notes, happily, that some of the hearts have oozy red, glittery blood dripping down the sides of them.

"Did you make one, Sebastian?" she asks.

"Nah, I don't really want any Valentine's." He says.

Personally, he likes Valentine's Day—the French crepes au chocolat their psychotic French neighbor made, the red coloring everywhere, the love-struck fey running around, and the fact that the very mention of the day makes Jocelyn cringe.

He prompts Clary to name the stuffed red bear he gets her Valentine, in honor of the day.

:-:

Sebastian finds a knife in his mother's things and tucks it away in his pocket, before he leaves to retrieve a human heart for his demon. She had left him a note, giving an address to a family that had been brutally murdered a few days ago, but the police had yet to investigate. He jimmies the door and it slides open easily and he walks through the dark house to find the bodies.

They're in the bedroom—if that's not nineties horror enough—the man is lain to sleep on the bed looking peaceful. Sebastian would have almost believed he was asleep too, if not for the tear cutting the length of his sternum (which was gone by the way) and the overflow of blood spilling out onto the floor and sheets.

_Easy, _he thinks and rolls up his sleeves.

He reaches into the gaping red hole in the man's chest, feeling around the broken bones and the squishy insides. There's no heart there.

Cool air brushes his cheek and Sebastian whirls around, facing the demon-girl.

"Like it? He was her father." She grins and a bloody smiley face stretches across her mouth. "And over there—in the bathroom—that's her mother." His eyes skim the blood across the floorboards leading into the dark, cavernous room.

"That's not your true form?"

"Of course not, idiot." She begins to circle him, slow and predator like. "You're not a Shadowhunter. You're not a demon. That puzzles me, you smell like both."

"Smell?"

"Like sulfur and steel. You smell like both. You repel—and you draw our kind close. Hmm, that makes me wonder . . ." she grins wider and her bloody teeth shine in the dim light. "There were rumors and whispers of this."

"Of what—"

She lunges then, cutting him off mid-sentence, her teeth sink into his shoulder. Sebastian screams and thrashes, trying to push her off but her jaw is locked. His dark red blood gushes out and into her mouth and into his jacket. He's still screaming.

He reaches out, almost on instinct, and pulls the knife from his pocket.

He bashes the hilt of the knife into her head and she pulls back, shrieking, but Sebastian is far from done with her yet. Betrayal burning through his veins, he wraps his arms around bringing her to the ground with a careless tackle—she tries to get up and he smashes her head into the floorboards until her human skulls splits—and wrapping his fingers around her neck and squeezing, squeezing, _wringing _until the dying gasp brushes past the demon's lips. "Monster . . ."

He pushes the knife into her throat.

When it's done and she dead and evaporated into blue fire, leaving nothing but a bloody corpse of a powdery pale girl, Sebastian is staring at his bloody hands wondering how something could seem so easy. How his rage had taken him.

How this could hurt someone he actually wanted to protect.

:-:

He's halfway home when the pain in his shoulder stops, the bleeding crescent her jaw left is only a scar now against his once flawless skin.

He shucks off the bloody jacket and gives it to a homeless man on the side of the road.

:-:

He gets home and runs to the shower, pouring hot water over his body and washing away all traces of blood and guts and grim from his pale skin until he's slick and fresh as a daisy.

He sits at the edge of the bathtub for a while, towel drying his hair and staring at the cracked tiles and flowery purple walls, realizing that this world isn't for him anymore.

:-:

"Where are you going?" Clarissa asks.

"Out."

"But it's cold outside," Clary says and she puts her book down. "Sebastian you can't go outside its cold." She repeats when he keeps walking. "Sebastian—"

"Clary, I'm just going to sit outside for a little while." He opens the screen door, tugging his coat over his shoulders and is almost gone until Clary comes plowing out after him.

"Then I'll sit with you." She grabs his elbow in one hand and pulls tight enough to bruise.

"You'll be cold." Sebastian retaliates and starts to tug his arm away.

"No I won't!" Clary wraps her arms around him like a blanket, holding him as tightly as her strength would allow her to. "I won't be cold. Let's just go back inside and sit down. I just got a new movie—watch it with me, please?"

Years later, Sebastian—now Jonathan again—will ask his sister why she clung to him so tightly that night and refused to let go.

"I got that feeling . . . that if I let you go . . . I'd never see you again."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Of course it is!" Clary insists with tears streaming down her face. "You're my brother and I love you."

* * *

**Sorry that this came a bit late, I was going to skip ahead to the first book but people wanted more of Clary and Jonathan's childhood so I did what I could. One more childhood chapter to go. They're pre-Junior high here. Thank you for all the reviews and I hope you enjoyed this bonding, first kill and bully prevention chapter!**

**~QueenVamp**


	3. blood of my blood, i love you so

**Title | **Shooting Butterflies  
**Genre| **romance/horror  
**Rating| **T for blood and death  
**Fandom| **TMI  
**Timeline| **Pre-CoB  
**Couple| **jonathan/clary

**Warning| **Jonathan, teen!Jonathan, fourth then sixth grade, health class, actual events, blood, periods, mother-daughter talks, some incest inserts here, Silence of the Lambs, Luke being awesome, blood-dealers

* * *

**Chapter Three: **_blood of my blood, i love you so_

* * *

_"There's no one who imagines like you_  
_so convinced that there's somewhere that we go to_  
_not a first-class trip to the abyss."_

—"Cemetery" by Say Anything

* * *

_Health class is a waste, _Sebastian thinks as he sits surrounded by his peers and their wide-eyed and dazed expressions. Just the boys now—which he begins to believe that Clary may be right when she says girls are smarter—and is considering jumping out the window and taking his chances with the pixie's hopping around the playground.

"Now," Coach Klingerman states. "You boys may start noticing that girls are wearing what's called 'extra clothing'." He makes air quotes and his respective students glance around the room, confused. "We, as men, do not make fun of this 'extra clothing' because this is what girls need to, uh, help their 'extra'—er—'extras'." He says.

"What's he talkin' 'bout?"

"I don't know."

"He's talking about bras, you idiot." Sebastian mutters back and the boy beside him gaps.

"Mister Klingerman! Sebastian's talking about _bras_!"

_You little tattling prick, _he raises his brows at him until the boy's mouth closes and he shrinks back into his seat. He should _not _be anticipating recess right now. No. Because Sebastian will _find _him and—

"Right!" Mr. Klingerman ejects, shooting Sebastian an evil look that he deflects with a shrug. "Sebastian is right . . . 'extra clothing' otherwise known as _bras _are what girls wear to hold up their extra-extras. But we do not talk about them."

Sebastian feels like he should have a word key for all this code word bullshit the Coach is feeding them. Of course, he's seen bras before—the unfortunate time Jocelyn was careless with laundry.

"He's probably never even seen a bra before," Sebastian mutters, more so to himself, but the others guys around him are so stony silent the break into a chorus of laughter and elbowing look nothing short of a riot. He finds their reactions endearing and continues, "Or boobs."

Okay, _now _he's got them _really _going.

"Sebastian!" the teacher yells.

"What?" He shrugs like he's helpless among the gaggle of laughing boys. "I live with two girls."

Somehow, the Coach takes this as a sign that Sebastian needs a 'firm male hand'—what the hell that means, it's sounds pedophilic and just _wrong_—and he tries to talk Jocelyn into going out to dinner with him when Sebastian's cornered in the principal's office. Jocelyn shoots him down by talking about Luke, and during the cab ride home she and him share a look of agreement that ordaining Luke with the title _Uncle_ was a bad idea.

:-:

When Clary's grade is divided into groups, he's in another school, but meets her at the edge of the sidewalk and watches how she flushes pink surrounded by girls chattering about _eggs _and _calendars _and _pads_. She looks like she wants to throttle them all.

"Have a fun Talk?" he asks and adjusts the straps on his backpack.

"That was visually scaring."

"Really? We didn't get pictures. Do you think we can get passed the net-nanny to search for them?"

"Shut up Sebastian."

:-:

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks on the walk home and his sister smiles at him. It's one of those rare walks where it's just him and Clarissa and Simon has a doctor's appointment, or an eye appointment, or he's sick, or _something_—the kid has health problems.

"Yeah, my stomachs just upset."

They keep walking and Sebastian hovers—he can't help it, he just does—and takes in the measure of his sister's steps and the way she carries herself across the street and through the sidewalks. It fills him with pride that he is deemed strong and smart enough to walk with Clary across mean streets and the crowds of the city, but he's skeptical because it's Jocelyn and he knows what Jocelyn's capable of and he _doesn't trust _Jocelyn.

Clary's shoulders are folding in fatigue and she groans, rubbing her stomach.

"Are you going to puke?" Sebastian queries, poking at his sister's arm teasingly. Clary shoots him a look and shoves him with one arm. He barley moves. "'Cause if you do, I'm not holding your hair like last time."

"Don't be gross," she whines and steadies herself. "I'm fine."

That's when he smells it; on a thin waft of air, curling up from Clary to his nose. He goes rigid.

"Are you bleeding?" he says before he can stop himself and Clary whirls towards him, eyes blown wide and green. Sebastian mirrors her expression. "Why are you bleeding!?"

"Ohmigod, _Sebastian_—" Clary turns and bolts her way up the block to their apartment, Sebastian at her heels yelling for her to answer him.

She stumbles up the steps, into the apartment and runs through yelling for Jocelyn—finding her in the hallway—when Sebastian catches up. Fisting his throbbing, red hand that Clary slammed in the door in her struggle to get inside.

There are a few moments of blabber and incoherence that Jocelyn's somehow able to sort out by zeroing in on Clary's frantic voice before she nods and pulls her daughter into the bathroom to their left. Sebastian follows, "—will someone tell me what's going on here?"

"Sebastian, _please_." Jocelyn rolls her eyes, annoyed, and shoves her son out of the bathroom before slamming the door. He hears the lock turn and Clarissa is moaning about the pain in her abdomen.

"Is this—?"

"Yes, sweetie, congratulations you're a woman." Jocelyn says sounding almost cheerier than before.

"This sucks,"

Jocelyn laughs, "I know."

He stays outside the bathroom door for however long and the scent of blood and soap consume his senses. For what seems like hours—probably minutes—Jocelyn and Clarissa sit in the bathroom talking back and forth, until the thumb lock unclicks, and Clarissa appears in the bathroom door—cheeks bright pink.

"Are you okay?" he asks slowly and she nods. "Why were you bleeding so much?"

"I, um . . ." she pauses, lips pursed like she doesn't know what to say. "I started . . ."

"Started what?"

"My period?" She blurts and the two stare at each other and disappear into their respective bedrooms for the remainder of the evening. Jocelyn brings chocolate cake into Clarissa's room a few hours later and leaves Sebastian a slice at his door like an offering to a vengeful demon.

Days pass and they politely avoid each other, both to embarrassed about the scene.

Sebastian decides health class never actually taught him something, but later finds out why he can actually _smell _blood from someone even less qualified than Coach Klingerman. For now it's something he's getting used to.

:-:

His teen years, both early and on-going, were graced with many more fights with Jocelyn and Luke; about school, and people, and fights, and Clary, and him, and them, and his father.

It was the mourning day of the man in the picture frame above the mantel. He's brown and plain and Sebastian can't find a scrape of either him or Clary in his face.

Jocelyn was sitting quietly in her bedroom when Jonathan ventured to jest, "Neither of us looks like him. He obviously isn't our father—why do you mourn him? He's not our father, neither is Luke. Was there someone else? Did the man in the picture kill himself after he found how unfaithful you were?"

In all honesty, he was looking for a fight and the demon-girl's words of his 'true parentage' haunted him when his mind was too idle and the unseen things acted up.

Jocelyn assaults verbally calling him every name in the book and _how dare he_, how dare he question her perfect lies that he calls her on. It resolves with her hand across his face and Clary's pained yelp as if the blow had stuck her instead. Sebastian barely flinches and moves to knock Jocelyn's hand away, but she's too quick for him. Too quick.

Sebastian stares at Jocelyn for a good long minute—fists curling and uncurling as he contemplates hitting her back, _hard. _Harder. Until her blood paints his hands and his knuckles ache. He wants to _kill _her in moments like these and dash out her brains across the ugly carpet and gut her with his bare hands and end her violently with every word she ever said to him.

Burn her remains with every bad feeling that itches beneath his skin that he wants to cut out of himself because he _knows _despite everything else—and the imbalance of his true father—Jocelyn _is _his mother. He came from her. He is a part of her.

_But not a part of me,_ he stands a little taller until he's nearly the same height as her.

So if he is a part of her, a chip of her soul; he will be sour and rotten and infest her like a disease that eats away at her from the inside out, make her scream and beg for her life because that's all she deserves. He steps closer and watches fear spike in green eyes.

Clary lingers in the arch of the hallway over Jocelyn's shoulder, slanting against the wall from where Jocelyn had pushed her in her hurry to get to Sebastian only minutes ago.

There's silence, then _you're not worth it_ seethes from his lips before he turns for the door and slams it behind him.

Clary's frightened gaze lingers in the corners of his thoughts and he could smell the fear as palpable as the blood, and it's a delicious and terrifying to him as it would to any normal person.

"Huh," he huffs and his breath crystalizes in the air.

He's not normal, that's for sure.

The door slams several paces after him and Clarissa runs, nearly tripping a few times down the stairs and across the pavement towards him picking up a steady momentum. She grabs his hand while running, clasping their fingers together tight and easy and _never letting go_. Her hands are cold and shaking but she keeps running.

"C'mon, I know where we can go!"

He follows.

:-:

He feels compelled to ask, _why_? And stares at their clasped hands.

"Why what?" Clary asks, hands shaking from the adrenaline rush and sense piqued to the jumpiest setting as she scans the crowds for familiar faces or their mother. The subway is eerie at night with the florescent lights and foggy shadows in the glass—then, of course, there's the guys dealing vampire blood several rows away, but Clary can't see them.

"Why did you follow me?" he asks and Clary looks at him—stake-out forgotten—and frowns. "You don't have to be here. Just leave the door unlocked and I'll come back later."

She touches his cheek and he flinches.

They're not really the hugging family, who loves and supports each other with careless PDA, but even reassuring touches and nudges seem out of place when most of the time Jocelyn will jump just to avoid being near him. Clary's hugs were special, though fewer and fewer with each year.

"She never hit you before." Clary trails off and the transition from an endearing _mom _to a venomous _she_ makes him feel lighter. She stares at him for a few mesmerizing seconds and he feels important and innocuous and worthy in her eyes. "I know you can handle this, but you don't deserve to handle it alone." She tilts her head in a parody of a shrug. "Besides, you're my brother and I love you."

He never questions her again.

:-:

They go the Luke's, obviously, because their mom would check Four-Eyes' house first or anywhere Sebastian would go because he's the bad one to abduct his sister who ran out after him. Moreover, Luke is 'family' so he doesn't ask questions.

Luke welcomes them with Chinese take-out and coffee and they taste better than any meal Jocelyn can hope to ever make. They talk about books, school, and summer plans. Sebastian eats his food, picking at it, and catches Luke and Clarissa staring at him a few times.

:-:

"I'm fine, Clary." He groans and chose to forget that the roles are usually reversed in these types of situations, and Clary is fighting a smile while trying to look tender and caring.

"Just want to be sure," she says. "Ice pack?"

"Those are beans."

"Luke didn't have anything else."

"Figures,"

"I could get the frozen pork loins."

"Why does he _have_ those?"

:-:

Luke steps out to make a call and Sebastian eavesdrops, and to his surprise Luke's calling the school, not Jocelyn. When he gets off the phone, he catches Sebastian and says that neither of them have to go to school tomorrow if they don't want to so long as they swear to having a severe case of diarrhea.

For a moment Sebastian stares at him and wonders what Jocelyn did to piss him off so badly that he's siding with him—the heir apparent to Satan, _apparently_—and attempting to appease him.

It doesn't really matter, but he'll have a bitch-fit about the diarrhea cover later.

"Whatever," he says and steps back inside to help Clarissa with the dishes. They set up on the couch and put in _Silence of the Lambs _to fall asleep to. Clarissa presses against him during the scary parts, like always, but it feels different now.

He feels more aware of it, her closeness, how she'll grab for his hand, or laugh and it vibrates through her and he feels all of it.

:-:

The case is just drawing to a close—Clarice and Hannibal are having their last meeting—when Clarissa is snoozing against his shoulder, curled up in baby pink blanket and the blue shine to the TV screen glows over her illuminated pale skin. Luke rubs at his eyes and takes off his glasses.

Clarissa snuggles further against him, eyelids fluttering. "G'night Bassie," she mutters half-awake, and lulls into sleep.

It's something that always happens. The aching, pained edge inside of him softens at the endearment and he swallows the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling guilty for ever thinking in such ways about his sister. His little sister.

But she's a part of him—she's like him—she _understands _him.

That's all he'll ever really want.

Sebastian drops a kiss to her forehead and nuzzles his face into her curls, lips forming into a rare smile and falling asleep there feeling more content than ever. _I love you, _he thinks clandestinely and wills his thoughts out of his mind to hers, but she—thankfully—does not hear. She's not ready to hear and she may never be. _I love you and I don't care. _

:-:

He wakes to the smell of pancakes and early morning cartoons. Clary's sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pad of paper in hand scribbling away.

She's all knobby knees and orange-red hair and loud voice—Sebastian thinks she's beautiful.

* * *

**I'm terrible with updates when I run an idea into the ground by thinking about it took much. But this plane is _soaring _now. Yes, so that was health class and ohmigod the memories. I was the first girl out of all my friends to get my period and while they were talking about how they couldn't wait, I was so violent people avoided me. Jeez. And the 'extra clothing' bit. That was all a part of my fourth grade health class. Co-ed. Boys and Girls together. I was ready to cry. **

**Oh, and I am writing ANOTHER story where Clary and Jonathan were raised by Valentine. It's called 'Fallen Stars' check it out on my voting poll. Haha ;)**

**Reviews are love,**

**~QueenVamp**


	4. a boy named Sebastian Fray

**Title | **Shooting Butterflies  
**Genre| **romance/horror  
**Rating| **T for blood and death  
**Fandom| **TMI  
**Timeline| **Pre-CoB  
**Couple| **jonathan/clary

**Warning| **Jonathan, teen!Jonathan, high school, Jonathan graduated, Clary, coffee, how i got the name for this book, i like these lyrics, Jocelyn vs. Jonathan

* * *

**Chapter Four: **_a boy named Sebastian Fray_

* * *

_"Take a look and see i've painted you a picture_  
_it's black and white, except the blood's a little richer."_

—"Love Love Kiss Kiss" by Alkaine Trio

* * *

Sebastian's quiet and he knows if he settles his breathing just enough and closes his eyes, he could hear Clarissa in the next room: the creak of her bed while she sits up, the scuffle of her slippers, the cracking of joints as she stretches out and then finally opens the door of her bedroom and enters the living room. "Jesus! Sebastian, why are you sitting in the dark?"

His eyes open, liquid onyx against the dim orange lights Clarissa flickers on.

"Reading," he answers brusquely and his sister huffs, trying to contain her mane of curls.

"Well, you can't read in the dark, you'll mess up your eyes."

_Or so they_ _say, _but Sebastian never had an ounce of trouble seeing in the dark.

Clarissa's eyes seize the two mugs set out on the coffee table and she smiles, "You made coffee?"

"Yes, but when I tried to wake you up, you kicked me. I've been drinking it myself." He mumbles, barely paying attention and sips daintily at the mug of coffee in his hands. "Whatever happened to waking up early to prep yourself for back to school?"

Clarissa's mouth turns downward and she gives an ugly snort. "I'm human, unlike you."

Sebastian hums into his cup of coffee.

:-:

Sebastian Fray wasn't an atypical eighteen-year-old, he looked like an angel with all the light and waiflike beauty of one, but he was anything but angelic. Bone pale white-blonde hair aside his eyes were dark like an oil spill that—as far as his high school legacy goes—if you looked deeply enough into them, you'd see how you die.

He always laughed at that, but his mother didn't think it was funny at all. In fact, in a very secret part of Sebastian's mind, he was very sure his mother hated him. Not like 'great sorrowful disappointment hate' but hate-hate, the kind of hate that drove people to murder.

Leisurely, Sebastian slept with a throat slitting blade he used to kill the demon-girl under is pillow since he was eleven and had become an adapted light sleeper over the years of graceless childhood through his teens.

Clarissa had, of course, snuck into his room one night when she was twelve and he was fourteen because of a nightmare she felt she was too old to have. There had been a moment of confusion in Sebastian, Clary was backed by the moonlit window outlining her fire-red hair, and he's reminded of a memory of a nursery. _Jocelyn, _he thought for a wild unwilling second, and it's gone in a breath. The figure before him had the same fiery red hair and thin body as his mother he knew instantly it wasn't her.

He could _feel _Clary. As if they were twins, he could draw a sort of warm familiarity from his sister's presence.

He was popular in high school, in a notorious sort of way, and he had many 'friends' and quite a few 'girlfriends'—he probably mentally scarred the better half of them—but the only attention he ever sought was his baby sister's. People called him on it, how protective he was of her, holding court at the 'royal table' with his sister—and her nerdy friend Sigmund, or whomever—he would only allow a select few of his male companions speak to her and even now that outside he's graduated, he'd made plans to keep tabs to make sure all bullies—and boys—kept their hands off.

Sigmund, however, did prove to have his uses—universal cockblock was one of them.

:-:

He snickered over his cup of coffee and Clarissa raised an auburn brow at him, lowering her own mug away from her turned up mouth. "What?" she asks sounding curious and Sebastian's lips curl into a lupine-like grin that terrifies the more sane members of society—his mother included—but it makes Clarissa flare up like a flame doused with hairspray. "What?!"

He cackled and shook his head, "Nothing, nothing," he swore and lifts his mug lightly in the air. "Could you make more, please, sissy?" he faked a like wide-eyed whimper and Clarissa rolled her eyes, but stands abruptly from her cushy spot on the couch and grabbed Sebastian's mug from his hands disappeared into the kitchen to brew some more.

Sebastian flipped a page in his book, falling back in step with the next line on the top left margin and skimmed his eyes over the words, but isn't really reading; it's a trick he learnt in childhood when Jocelyn inflicted a two hours reading period on him to prevent him from getting bored and keep his mind away from other thoughts. He'd realized the pattern once or twice, the books she gave him to read weren't at all like Clarissa's picture or fantasy books, in fact, when he was ten his mother had given him the _Bible_ to read.

That he'd actually read.

Man, did God have some sense of humor.

Footfalls thump down the little hallway leading to Jocelyn's room and she appeared around the corner with a steady and guarded expression which clashed terribly with her outfit. Sebastian matches it. "Good morning," he clips tersely and Jocelyn nods to him.

They glared hatefully at each other for a few more seconds when Clarissa came waltzing out of the kitchen, red hair knotted up in a style similar to Jocelyn's, but messier, more careless. In her hands were two mugs, hers which was ceramic white with a pattern of colorful tiny butterflies, and his which as similar, but black and the tiny butterflies were red like blood to the lip of the cup.

"Mornin' mom," Clarissa smiles and Jocelyn leans over to kiss the cherubic cheek of his sister like any dotting mother would and Sebastian quirks an eyebrow at her physical show of "Clary is my favorite" and accepts the mug from Clarissa when she hands it to him.

"Ah, black," he sighs audibly as he drank, Clarissa fell into the couch beside him, snuggling into the warmth of the couch, legs thrown over his.

"Like our souls." She finishes.

He notes Jocelyn's look of disapproval, and declared this morning a win.

:-:

The day wore on with minimal activity—he pretends to read and watches Clarissa draw wing patterns across her dream-journal-notebook, while they flip through TV channels and watch a few episodes of _Dexter_. Then Sigmund shows up wearing another stupid tee shirt and adjusting his glasses. Sebastian had been the one to answer the door, since Jocelyn was out with Luke and Clarissa was busy and had done nose-goes, and the teen looked ready to high-tail it back to his apartment.

Sigmund—okay, he knew his name was Simon, but he liked Sigmund better—was one of the very few people that could see past his defensive line, i.e. his charming side that made people like him undoubtedly. Either because _a) _the boy had an indifferent form on conviction similar to that of a faith driven Pope or _b) _the fact that Sebastian had killed his last pet cat during an experiment during seventh grade year on the varying heights of which it can be dropped safely.

(Final count: one story . . . not even.)

The latter's events had taken two minutes of threats before Simon promised not to breathe a word.

And he bought him a new cat.

"Hey, Simon," he drawls and props against the doorframe. "Come to make moon-eyes at my sister?"

Simon's eyes widen and a blush begins to creep up the collar of his shirt to his hairline, much to his amusement, he starts to argue when Clarissa comes bounding out of the living room, elbowing him aside. Simon always had a look of awe whenever Clarissa did something like that—shove him out of the way, backtalk, or take his things without asking—and no one else would even think to do so. It wasn't because Clary could; it was because he let her.

He didn't mind when his baby sister opted to push him around a little. It was funny.

"Hey, Simon, what's up?"

"Nothing," Simon ventures, eyes fixing on her and her alone now. "And that's exactly it: _nothing_."

"Yeah, we need to go somewhere . . ." Clarissa trails off then smiles all catlike. "Pandemonium?" The name of the popular all-ages nightclub fell from her lips like a swear. True, neither Simon nor Clary really liked the club, but fun things always seemed to happen there.

Sebastian could rant off a list of things: spiked drinks, pranks on couples, fist fights, wallet snatching, and that time he got his ear-cartilage pierced free of charge by a weird, albeit knowledgeable, dark skinned guy with red eye contacts who'd slapped him on the back and named him his brethren.

Then again, Clarissa might not have such fun and or luck that he did. Bad teenager persona was his residence and those things just seemed to _happen _around him. Clarissa had a much different, much softer, life than him though they were entwined like black and white tassels.

The two continue talking and debating on this street and that street when Sebastian goes to the hallway closet had grabbed his biker jacket he stole from a friend of Luke's which still smelled oddly like beer and cigarette buds and wet dog.

Shrugging it on he reentered the living room just as Clarissa was, now dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a nicer looking top and jacket, she glances him up and down. "You're going like that?"

It seems to be a wordless agreement that he was tagging along, too.

"Well, Simon's going like _that._" He argued waving a straying finger towards the nerd reclined back on their couch flipping through Sebastian's Bible.

"Dude, you'd think with how many times you've read this thing you'd learn to be a little nicer." Simon huffed and gently placed—not tossed—his book back onto the coffee table under Sebastian's critical eye.

"It doesn't teach you pleasantries," Sebastian says, still glaring because Simon thought he could touch his book. "It teaches you balance, faith and the wrath of God."

Clarissa raised her eyebrows. "_Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God_?"

"Students in the hands of an Angry Teacher." He shot back.

"Hobbits in the Hands of an Angry Smaug—"

"Clary in the Hands of an Angry Brother—"

"Simon in the Dwelling of Two Freak-o-zoids!"

The Fray siblings snap their attention back to the couch and the boy in the corduroy jacket."Lewis, you just ruined it."

:-:

The club attracted the usual crowd of runaways looking for a party, rich kids from the Upper East Side slumming, and their usual band they hung out with—the unique people, as Clarissa often put it. Personally, Sebastian saw all humans as unique—rich, poor, black, white, yellow, popular, scorned, murderer, saint—all humans were fascinating.

Clarissa didn't mind any when he referred to other people as humans when he didn't himself. She thought it was artistic of him, "Like looking from the outside" as she put it. Though he was not as artistically inclined as she and Jocelyn, he had a way with words.

"You should be a psychologist, or a public speaker." Clarissa had offered one night after a grueling day of high school in which she cried on his shoulder and he silently pegged his list of hits for Monday.

Sebastian had being thinking about that a lot lately: what he wanted to do with his life now that mandatory high school was over? College, probably, but he'd never been away from Clarissa for more than a day since she's been born. He could wait two years for school—take some community courses or some prep classes—and then he and Clarissa could go to college together.

He'd probably need a job then, school was expensive . . . maybe he should just skip the whole school idea and just buy an apartment close to the school Clarissa wants to attend and then in two years he'll have a new home, his sister, and thriving business as a mafia informant or something of equal interest.

"You've got to be kidding me." The bouncer at the front of the line said and half of the crowd in rage leans forward to better hear the squabble at the front of the line. Not much else to do in the line anyway.

Sebastian blinks and forces his eyes to focus, the blue-haired boy at the front of the line is holding a weapon, sharp and looking like it could sever limbs with one swipe. The boy chats on and pinches his finger to the tip of the blade and makes it bend, but Sebastian knows that it's _not _bending.

It's glamor.

His eyes slide to Clary and Simon, both discussing who the guys supposed to be and Clary isn't even looking at him—she sees nothing, as always and she thinks the boy is cute.

He wonders if she'd think differently if she saw his three rows of teeth and claws.

He watches three teens shimmy in through the door unnoticed, and catches a few glimpses of silvery scars and matted black leather.

Tonight would definitely be interesting.

* * *

**Sorry this took so long, I cut it in half so we see the full uncut club scene and more next chapter. I'll reread those chapters tomorrow and finish them, but right now I just wanted to get this up to let you all know I'm alive. And I love this song. And the _Mortal Instruments _will not becoming to a theater near me, I have to drive out of town to see it on Saturday (NO SPOILERS!)**

**Yes, Seb/Jonathan seems like a bit of a caring brother, but he still has his darkness to him. Instilled by his hatred for Jocelyn.**

**And thank you, all of you who reviewed, read and reread my story, and voted for my poll. **

**Reviews are love,**

**~QueenVamp**


End file.
